


For Posterity

by weenerneener



Series: Model AU [2]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Bathroom Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, drug mention, rhys in panties and makeup, slight dom/sub undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weenerneener/pseuds/weenerneener
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys stands in front of the bathroom mirror, hands resting on the sink while he pointedly ignores the unfortunate erection he has going on in his pants. There's no way he's going to masturbate in a public bathroom. No way, he absolutely refuses to do it.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>  <em>Fuck.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	For Posterity

**Author's Note:**

> Haha guess who decided to write porn for a story where the two main characters haven't even met yet?? Me. The answer is me. This is set sometime ambiguously in the future and. And it's just porn, ok. I just wanted to write porn, whoops.
> 
> A huge thanks to michaelandthegodsquad for beta-ing! :+) You're super great and I love you.
> 
> And a big thanks to sin squad for just. Being your enabling selves, I love you all. Now here's the fucking bathroom blowjob thing I promised from forever ago, enjoy.

Rhys stands in front of the bathroom sink, hands planted firmly on the counter. He wants to splash water against his face, but frankly, Nisha would kill him if he ruined the makeup she’d spent so much time working on—especially if his only justification for it was wanting to clear his mind a little. Instead, he paces the circumference of the bathroom, stopping at the far wall to rest his head against the cool tile.

Everything’s fine. He can do this.

He’s been to plenty of fancy showcases before. Never as Handsome Jack’s date, of course, but hey—he’s an adaptable kind of guy. And he likes the attention he’s getting. He likes watching Jack’s self-satisfied smirk every time he catches someone looking their way—which is always—and how people turn their heads to watch them walk past. He likes the way Jack guides him around the room with his hand at the small of Rhys’s back. He likes feeling the idle movement of Jack’s thumb when they’re standing still, a subtle reminder that Rhys is at his beck and call, that Jack has complete control over him with the smallest pressure of his hand.

What Rhys doesn’t like is the fact that he’s gone semi-hard from it all.

He blames his own embarrassing lack of self-control on the poorly thought-out decision to wear silk panties underneath his suit. Oh, sure, they make his ass look great, and they’re almost the exact same shade of pink as his lipstick, which he loves, but their presence is always at the forefront of his mind. The fabric is sweetly heated and just tight enough to be as constant a pressure as Jack’s hand has been for the past hour, and it’s _torture_.

He shivers a little and shifts in place, cursing in his head when the small movement still makes his dick brush against the front of the panties. His flesh hand travels down to his pants, pausing to hover just over his zipper in indecision.

On one hand, this problem could be over in just a few short minutes, if he’s fast about it. On the other, he’s a grown-ass man, and he can’t jerk off in the bathroom of the company he literally just signed a contract with, especially on a day when hundreds of rich, powerful representatives are gathered literally right outside the bathroom door. He tilts his head back and bangs it against the wall a couple times, swearing under his breath.

So no jerking off.

If he can just get his dick to settle down, everything will be fine. Which is unfortunate, since that seems like an impossibility right now. He has no self-control, and Jack has been getting progressively more forward all night. He can’t deal with silk on his dick while Jack shows him off like a prize; the two aren’t going to work together if he wants to make it out of this with his dignity intact.

Not that he has much dignity left, at this point. He’s been standing in a bathroom for five minutes trying desperately not to masturbate his problems away. He either has to suck it up and deal with having a raging hard-on for the night, or he needs a really quick solution that doesn’t involve spending some personal time with his hand in a bathroom stall.

Rhys closes his eyes and breathes out a sigh through his nose.

First things first, the panties are going to have to go. Going commando in a tailor-made suit probably isn’t the best solution he’s ever come up with, but there’s absolutely no way he’s going to get anywhere while they’re on. After that, all he has to do is take a little time to calm down, think about Vasquez’s hair plugs until he isn’t sporting a semi anymore, and his whole problem will be solved. Hopefully.

There’s still the “Jack showing him off like his favorite prize pony gives him inappropriate feelings” thing, but he can’t deprive himself of all the good things about tonight. Plus he doesn’t think he could get Jack to stop, even if he wanted to, so. Best to just work on the things he stands a chance at solving.

He goes into a stall and drops his pants, staring forlornly at the ties of his panties. They’re very nice, and he’d spent a lot of time making the bows look as cute and perky as possible. He should have taken a picture before he left the house. For posterity.

Actually.

He looks down at his pants, where his phone is still sitting in his left pocket.

There’s an honest second where he considers whether or not taking a picture of himself in sexy lingerie  in a bathroom stall is all that much better than jerking off in one. After that second, he tosses the thought away and bends down to reach for his phone. He hits his ass against one of the walls and unbalances a little, swearing under his breath before finally getting his hand around it.

There’s another second where he has to reposition himself so the toilet isn’t in his shot, and then he takes a picture—first of just the panties and his excellent bow tying prowess, then one that includes his face, because he wants the makeup ensemble in there too.

He looks at the picture and frowns a little. He looks good—obviously he looks good, he’s standing in silk panties, a dress shirt, and he’s done up in a full face of makeup, he’s just about at his most attractive right now—but it’s not really the full picture. He’d asked Nisha to pick colors based solely around the pink lipstick, with the foreknowledge that anytime he blushed, it would bring out the color of his lips. She’d done beautifully, making sure his mouth stayed the center of attention, and her teasing had been completely worth it for the final effect, but.

But, well, he needs a blush if he really wants to capture how enticing he looks in the panties and makeup.

The idea of jerking off flashes in his eyes once more, a surefire way to get that blush, before he pushes it aside, because _honestly_ , he’s not fourteen anymore. Instead, he pinches at his cheeks, hard, and checks the camera on his phone to see when the color is right.

Satisfied, he takes a few more pictures. And then, since at this point he might as well, he awkwardly positions himself against the stall door so he can take a picture of what the panties do to his ass.

He scrolls through his pictures with a nod and puts his phone back into his pocket, and finally unties the bows holding his silky lingerie up. They flutter to the ground the same time he hears the bathroom door slam open.

“You planning to keep me waiting all night, princess?” The sound of Jack’s voice resonates through the bathroom, and Rhys flinches, tripping over his pants and falling hard onto the toilet seat.

“What, you just fall in? I know you’re a model, but please tell me you’ve got brains enough to figure out how a toilet works.”

Rhys lets out a panicked laugh, scrambling to both pull his pants up from around his ankles and wave the heat away from his cheeks at the same time. “No! I’m fine! Just—” his mind draws a blank. “Just, uh. You know. Bathrooms,” he finishes lamely, swearing under his breath and slamming the door open.

“But I’m fine, now!” He walks out of the stall like it’s on fire, long legs getting him away from it quickly before he realizes that he’s still got the panties bunched up in his hand. He hides them behind his back with a jerk of his arm. “Totally fine!”

Jack’s staring at him from the other side of the bathroom, leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah, I’m convinced,” he says, raising an eyebrow, before sliding his eyes over to the stall Rhys had just left. “Also, that’s kinda gross, but whatever. Leave flushing for the working class, why not.”

Rhys stops, mouth open to comment, before looking back at the bathroom stall. He tries to laugh again, but all that comes out is a choked-off noise. How did he get into this situation? All he wanted was to avoid getting a full-fledged hard-on while in the company of billionaires looking to buy overpriced designer clothing. That’s not an unreasonable thing to ask.

“I didn’t actually. Go. To the bathroom, so. I’m not. I flush the toilet when I use it,” he says stiltedly, not convinced that this is actually going to help anything.

The look Jack gives him suggests that no, that didn’t help. He’s staring at Rhys with narrowed eyes and mouth drawn in a frown. After a second, he straightens up and walks toward him, hands in his pockets. Rhys backs up for each step Jack takes forward, flesh arm still firmly behind his back, while his bionic one brushes already gelled-back hair away from his eyes.

“You seem a little on edge, here, kiddo. There something you want to tell me about?”

“Nope, nothing that I—” his back hits the tile and his voice breaks at the impact. “Nothing I can think of.”

Rhys shoves the panties into his back pocket while simultaneously holding eye contact with Jack, an over-exaggerated smile on his face that he can’t seem to tone down. He can’t even begin to express how much he doesn’t want to have the: “Haha, yeah, I’m just getting rid of my underwear because they, in combination with you, are giving me a huge boner and I don’t want to come in my pants like a teenager while we’re at a really fancy showcase,” conversation. He would give almost anything not to have it, honestly.

Jack stops a foot in front of him, legs shoulder-width apart and thumbs in his pockets, his hips jutting forward in a way that makes Rhys distinctly aware that his dick definitely hasn’t gone soft yet. He feels a flare of annoyance, both towards Jack and himself, because there’s no way that stance isn’t some kind of weird, sexual power play, and it’s _totally working_.

“You sure about that, princess? Cause you look a little,” he pauses as if to search for a word, eyes glancing upwards before sliding back down in a way that makes Rhys want to squirm, “suspicious. I’m not gonna find out you’ve got some kind of weird, super model drug problem or something, am I?”

Rhys opens his mouth to deny it, then stops to look at Jack questioningly. “Didn’t you just tell me about the time you snorted so much Boletus Fabaceae you ended up in the hospital, like, three days ago?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I manage myself well enough not to spend ten minutes in a bathroom. You get the difference? The disparity in competency between us?”

“You ended up in the hospital.”

He’s pretty sure he wins this argument by default, because even if he was taking drugs—which he’s not, he’d gotten high in college once and remembers absolutely nothing from that night, but his bionic arm had been banged to hell, and he’d found some _really_ questionable things in his socket; it’s not an experience he wants to repeat—he highly doubts ten minutes in a bathroom drives down efficiency as much as a hospital trip does.

Jack gives him a look, entirely unimpressed, and Rhys deflates a little.

Alright, no subject change via a hypothetical debate on who would be the best at taking drugs, then.

“I don’t have a drug problem,” he answers, finally, because he doesn’t want Jack to think that’s why he’s acting strange.

Jack takes another long, examining look at him, and Rhys stares back. He’s already coming to terms with the fact that he’s going to have to give up his boner situation, because there really _isn’t_ any other explanation he can give. “No, sorry, I was just in here because I like the smell of bathrooms”? Yeah, that sounds like something Handsome Jack would buy.

Instead, Jack just shrugs, stance relaxing a little. “Whatever you say, kiddo. So, since you’re not in here getting high, you planning on joining the party any time soon? Or did you spend all that time begging Nisha to doll you up just so you could look pretty standing alone in a bathroom?”

Rhys opens his mouth to defend himself, no actual excuse in mind, and then realizes what Jack asked him. He pauses, uncertain, replays that in his head, and then closes his mouth.

No lying, he kind of wants to hug Jack for not pushing this. That would be really suspicious, and he won’t, but the impulse is there. Instead he nods. “Yeah! Yeah, sure, we can go back. I’m, uh. I’m done in here.”

He sidles around Jack, walking to the door victoriously. He still has a bit of a panic boner, but at least he’s avoided the most awkward confrontation of his life. He hears Jack turning to walk alongside him and turns his head to smile at him, when he feels a sharp tug against his waist.

He stops with a small huff, air forced out of his lungs in surprise, and tries to turn towards Jack in question. He can’t do it, Jack puts an arm firmly on the shoulder furthest away from him, his arm reaching across Rhys’s chest and keeping him from moving. He tries to ask what Jack’s doing, and is cut off by a light squeeze on his shoulder.

“You’ve got something stuck in your pants.” There’s a long, horrible silence where Rhys sees his entire life flash before his eyes. It starts with the day he shoved his entire face in his birthday cake as a baby, and ends right here. With Jack pulling a pair of panties out of his back pocket.

Because of course Jack wouldn’t _actually_ let something like this go. Rhys had been blinded by his own naïve belief in the idea that maybe, sometimes, things could go his way. He should know better by now.

He doesn’t try to turn his head to look, partly because he can’t in this position, but also because he doesn’t want to witness his own failure. He feels the long, slow tug of the bunched up underwear leaving his pocket, followed by dead silence.

He can’t even bring himself to laugh this off, or start babbling uncontrollably. He refuses to dig himself a deeper grave than he’s already in. And he’s honestly a little angry. In any other circumstance, Jack finding his pretty silk panties would be a good thing, something he can actively imagine going really, _really_ well for him. Instead, this happens.

And he still has the fucking erection, which is bullshit. Sure, even mortified, he’s still vaguely turned on by Jack manhandling him, but, come on: he doesn’t need this right now. He deserves one good thing in his life, and in this case, that good thing is his dick settling down.

The silence stretches on a little longer.

“There better be an explanation coming sometime soon, here, Rhys,” Jack says, and there’s an underlying tone of anger that makes Rhys’s back straighten up.

Oh.

Well.

Until right this very second, he’d never considered the possibility that Jack wouldn’t immediately recognize that those were his, and that he was an embarrassing, hormone-addled adult who couldn’t wear underwear without getting a boner. He kind of forgets that other people don’t automatically assume that a beautiful pair of silk panties would belong to him.

He opens his mouth.

An idiotic, “Uhhh,” is all that comes out, so he closes it again.

Fingers tighten around his shoulder, and Jack spins him around so that Rhys is looking right at the pair of panties.

“You need a little reminder what we’re discussing here? Is your short term memory that godawful, or have you suddenly forgotten how to speak?” Jack doesn’t give him time to respond. He forces Rhys backwards, until he collides, hard, with the door of one of the stalls.

“Well? Which is it?”

Rhys is momentarily too addled to respond, mind totally blank. Jack’s hand is pressing hard against where his bionic arm and shoulder connect, and the pressure is clouding his head with weird feedback. He tries to shrug off the hand and, when that doesn’t work, forcefully pushes it away.

“What are you doing, Jack?” he asks, because it’s all he can think to say.

Jack gives him a hard, incredulous look in return, hand moving up to grab him again, and then, when he sees Rhys flinch a little, switches to pressing it against the stall door, caging Rhys in.

“I thought it was pretty obvious what _I_ was doing, cupcake. The real question is what _you’ve_ been up to.”

“I was just—” he shifts a little, trying to find leverage against the door, and Jack crowds his space. He lets out a strangled sound when Jack’s leg presses in between his to get him to stop squirming. “I was just, I just had to,” he lets out a frustrated noise and looks down, glancing quickly at where Jack’s leg fits between his, and looking up at Jack desperately.

There’s a second where Jack doesn’t seem to get it, and then he realizes what’s pushing against his leg, and he sneers.

“Really? This does it for you? You want me to catch you in the act, next time? I’ll do more than just grab someone’s shoulder then,” he snarls, pressing closer, and Rhys scrambles to push against Jack’s stomach, ignoring the heat prickling at the back of his neck at Jack’s words.

“Back off! They’re mine, the panties are mine! I’m not fucking cheating on you, what the hell!” He unbalances Jack just enough that he takes a step back, his leg leaving Rhys’s crotch. It’s a relief, mostly, and he pulls at his pants to fix the awkward way they’ve bunched against him.

He looks up after a second, when he realizes that Jack hasn’t moved, not able to hide the annoyance on his face. His eyes catch on Jack’s hands first, and his irritation compounds when he sees the panties.

“You ripped them.” They’re not really ripped, but they’re threading where Jack had run his fingernails against them, which is just as bad.

Jack looks down at his hand like they’re the most unimportant things in the world, as if he hadn’t just pushed Rhys against a stall because of them in a really sudden, whiplash-inducing anger.

“These? You’ll have five new pairs before you even get home tonight,” he says, as if that’s a given, something so below his radar he’s not sure why Rhys would bring it up. He goes back to examining his face, a speculative look in his eye.

“So these are yours, princess? You don’t need a girl on the side because you already are the girl on the side?” he asks with a smirk, and Rhys puffs up in further irritation.

“They’re mine, there’s no ‘girl’ aspect to it. I just like silk.” And he looks great in them. It’s amazing how much a little righteous anger keeps his humiliation at bay. He normally hates this conversation, and the judgment involved.

And it isn’t that he’s worried Jack won’t approve, because he knows Jack’s into it. He’s seen him looking at his lips all night, and how he’d examined the flared eyeliner and long, full eyelashes Rhys was sporting. Jack appreciates his beauty, and Rhys knows that. He just. Hates this conversation. Has had it with too many other people.

“That explains keeping them in your pocket instead of wearing them,” Jack snarks back, a cocky grin forming on his face. “What, did you make a mess? Can’t handle a little silk?”

“Shut up.” Rhys can feel a flush rising up his neck, because he can’t say yes to that, even though it’s the truth. Well, it’s mostly the truth. He’s especially not going to tell Jack that _he_ was just as big a problem as the panties were, though. Not while they’re standing in a bathroom.

Jack steps closer to him, the distance between them nonexistent. “What was it, Rhysie? What made it so bad you had to come into the bathroom just to take your panties off? Was it being shown off? Hanging off my arm like a pretty little toy for everyone to see?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Rhys repeats, head falling back against the stall door. There’s a swat against his flesh arm, and he looks at Jack through narrowed eyes, trying desperately to ignore the picture Jack’s putting in his head.

“Careful with the commands, cupcake, I might start thinking you’re the one who wants to run this show,” Jack warns, a hand moving up to trail lightly against Rhys’s cheek.

Rhys bites his lip, and then lets it go after a second, remembering his lipstick. “You can’t go from pushing me against a wall to doing _this_ ,” he complains, even though he doesn’t move to push Jack away again.

He can feel the huff of breath Jack expels, probably laughing at him, and closes his eyes further.

“Oh yeah? You want me to stop? Want me to let you go?”

_No._ He doesn’t want that. He’s been dying for Jack’s hands on him—really on him—all night. But he also doesn’t want to be reduced to a ridiculous, turned on mess right now. He fights with himself in indecision for what feels like ever, all the while breathing in Jack, feeling his hand against his face, the transfer of heat against his torso because Jack’s standing so close to him.

“I need an answer, Rhys.”

Rhys feels the return of Jack’s leg between his own and groans a little, turning his head to kiss against Jack’s wrist.

“God, Jack.”

“One and the same, baby.”

Jack tilts his face up to kiss him, his lips surprisingly soft against Rhys’s, coaxing, and Rhys breathes a sigh through his nose. He kisses back in a way he feels might be a little overeager, but can’t bring himself to care. Their mouths move easily against each other, Rhys wrapping his hands around Jack tight to grab at the back of his jacket.

He can feel the Jack’s smile against his mouth, and the way he repositions himself against him more comfortably. When he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Rhys’s, he has to keep his hand on Rhys’s jaw, to keep him from following him up. The resulting smirk is unnecessary and infuriatingly attractive.

“So is that a no?”

It takes Rhys a second to figure out what he’s asking. He’s too busy staring at Jack’s lipstick-smeared lips, pulled up attractively in his usual cocky expression, and wanting to kiss him again. When he finally does piece it together, he can’t help the small smile on his face.

Because Jack’s an asshole and he’s a hormone-addled mess and they’re both kind of ridiculous, honestly.

“Don’t stop,” he confirms, and feels a rush of pleasure when Jack’s smirk widens in approval.

“You sure? We could go out there right now, your lipstick smeared, let everyone see the little vixen you really are. How long do you think it’d take to convince them that’s a new style, hmm? How long before you have to walk through Helios, looking at faces covered in ruined lipstick, all because you were too pretty for me to resist?”

Rhys jerks hard against Jack’s leg, suddenly needing that pressure more than anything, his dick throbbing in his pants. The little, repressed noise he makes in the back of his throat is embarrassing, but Jack zeroes in on it, eyes trailing from his mouth down to his throat.

The grin he takes on is absolutely wicked. “How far do you think we could take it, Rhysie? Think I could take you here? Everyone outside listening to you screaming my name? Think about how they’d stare at you then, cupcake, knowing my cum is dripping out of you.”

“Jack.” Rhys moans and pulls at Jack’s back harder. He lurches forward to catch Jack’s mouth with his own, tongue sliding against Jack’s lower lip, just barely grazing the seam of his mask, because he knows what Jack’s reaction to that is.

He doesn’t disappoint. Rhys makes a small noise of approval when Jack moves his hands down to cup his waist, forcefully moving him so their dicks match up through their pants. He can feel Jack hard against him, making small, jerking motions that ignite more sensation than they sate.

Rhys arches up into him, enjoying the way Jack’s hands carry the motion, how they slide down to Rhys’s ass and legs, until he’s just as responsible for holding Rhys up as Rhys himself is.

In spite of all that, Jack doesn’t make any move to deepen the kiss. Aside from the small slide of Rhys’s tongue, it’s just lips moving together, trading breaths and enjoying the closeness. It doesn’t match the rhythm of their hips at all, and Rhys whines deep in his throat.

Jack reciprocates the sound with one of his own, deeper and much more satisfied than Rhys’s. Rhys pulls away enough to look at him, racking his brain for something that will pull the proper reaction he wants out of Jack, and is sidetracked when Jack speaks first.

“Can’t be too rough with those lips. I’ve got plans for them.”

And suddenly Rhys isn’t trying to find words at all. His expression must say something, though, because Jack makes that same, satisfied noise, and reaches a hand up to cup Rhys’s still-clothed dick.

“You’re so perfect for me, aren’t you? Practically salivating at the thought of my dick filling up your mouth.”

“Jack,” Rhys moans out in approval, not sure what to do with himself. He wants to kiss Jack again, but that would stop him from talking, and he desperately wants to hear what he has to say. The words come in fuzzy, and take forever for Rhys to sort out in his head, but just the tone is enough to have Rhys rocking into Jack’s hand eagerly.

“Oh, you flush like a dream, princess. Just the sound of my voice does it for you, huh? You get hard listening to me talk? Fantasize about me telling you all the dirty things I want to do with you? We haven’t even scratched the surface, yet.”

The sound that comes out of his mouth is closer to a whine, now, and he struggles a little just to get Jack to press against him harder, to hold him down and keep him still. Jack seems to know exactly what he wants, expelling a small laugh and pressing his hand into his dick harder, using his other one to force Rhys into a steadier grind against his palm.

He moans out again in satisfaction, a litany of words he can’t decipher falling from his lips in praise.

“You trying to tell me something? You’re going to need to speak up if you want me to hear you over all that moaning you’re doing.”

As if to drive the point home, Jack squeezes him, almost to the point of pain, and another moan is ripped from Rhys’s throat. He throws his head back hard, exposing the long slope of his neck, and tries to simultaneously jerk away from and towards Jack’s hand.

“Jack, Jack, please,” he says, drawing the please out long. And then, because he can’t bring himself to stop, he continues on, a mantra of pleases and Jack’s name, jerking uselessly from where Jack has him trapped between himself and the stall door.

“You close? Are you gonna come in your pants for me? Ha, I bet I could ruin you with just a word, if I tried.”

Rhys moans in answer and Jack’s hand stops. It doesn’t keep Rhys from trying to move against it on his own, but Jack’s stronger than he is, and he moves his hand away so Rhys is rutting against the air.

“Not yet. I want to see your lips wrapped around my dick before you come apart,” he says, voice rough and eyes glancing down at Rhys’s mouth with a hunger that has Rhys scrambling to get to his knees.

“God, god, please, yes, Jack. I want it. I want to.”

Jack hums his approval, hands reaching up to grab onto the top of the stall so he can watch Rhys work at the belt of his pants. Rhys flicks his eyes up towards him, torn between wanting to see his expression and getting his dick out as quickly as possible. Jack helps him decide, moving one hand to thread his fingers through Rhys’s hair.

Rhys hums at the feeling for a second, and then follows the pressure on his head down so he’s looking right at Jack’s zipper. He doesn’t look up at him again, but he imagines Jack can still see the little smile that spreads across his face at being guided.

For all his quick, unsteady breaths, and the way he’s hardly been able to form a coherent sentence at all, Rhys doesn’t have any trouble unbuckling Jack’s belt, his hands surprisingly steady and focused. The pants are tight enough that when Rhys unbuttons and unzips them, they don’t drop, and Rhys pushes at them impatiently.

Jack stops him from pushing them all the way down, revealing his dick and not much else. Rhys takes a long second to just look at him, completely hard, his head glistening just the slightest bit. There’s almost no other naked skin for Rhys to see, and he’s momentarily mesmerized, before he looks back up at Jack, asking permission without really speaking.

Jack runs a hand through his hair again, staring down at Rhys’s doe-eyes, blue and brown and shining with want, framed prettily with eyeliner and mascara. His lips are parted, the pink of his tongue just barely visible, an almost inaudible whine coming from the back of his throat.

Rhys likes to think that when Jack called him a vixen, this is exactly what he’d had in mind.

“You ready, princess?” Jack asks, voice rougher than anything Rhys has heard in a long time.

He nods eagerly, lips parting a little bit more before following the pressure of Jack’s hand. His lips hover against the tip of Jack’s dick for a brief second, where he breathes out a shaky little sigh against it, before he wraps his mouth around him.

He hears Jack swear quietly under his breath, and looks up at him through his lashes, hollowing his cheeks before moving further down the length of him. It’s a combination he knows Jack likes, and if his mouth weren’t stretched so tight, he’d smile at the expression he sees.

“You suck like a dream.” Jack sighs, his hand no longer guiding, just carding softly through Rhys’s hair, letting him set the pace. “So good for me, frickin’ perfect.”

Rhys warms all over, picking up his pace a little. His hands grab at Jack’s legs, now that he doesn’t have the guiding pressure on his head. His lips catch a little when he starts taking him deeper, the stickiness of his lipstick making his mouth drag. He makes a small, disapproving sound at himself, and goes to move back, only for Jack’s hand to clench hard into his hair.

“Nah-ah,” Jack says, and Rhys flickers his eyes back up to him, staring into his blown pupils, happy at the breathlessness of Jack’s voice, but not sure what he’s done.

Instead of explaining, though, Jack just presses his palm against him a little harder, guiding Rhys further down his length and making his lips drag more, alternating between taking him in further, and lipstick stopping him awkwardly. There are pauses where Rhys thinks Jack’s had enough, and that he’s finally going to pull back, but it never happens, so Rhys does his best to relax and see what Jack wants.

It’s fine until Jack reaches the back of his throat, where after a while the slow drag is too much for him to breath around, and he can’t relax his throat enough with the uneven pushing motion. He makes a small noise of protest, and Jack’s hand eases up, letting him pull away  to take a deep breath.

He coughs a little to clear his throat, not wiping the spit from his mouth, even though it’s uncomfortably noticeable against his skin, because he knows Jack likes him looking as debauched as possible.

“See that? Your pretty lips leaving their mark on me?” Jack asks, voice still hoarse, rubbing a thumb against one of Rhys’s cheekbones.

Rhys looks up at Jack, eyes watering a little while he continues breathing, before obligingly looking to where Jack’s cock is hard and glistening with spit. His eyes widen a little when he sees the rings he’s left, rows of blushing pink against Jack’s cock, striking in a way that makes him stare, a flush rivaling the lipstick color rising on his cheeks.

“Jack,” he whispers, voice borderline reverent, reaching a hand out to trace one of the marks.

He pauses with his hand halfway stretched out, oddly afraid he’s going to ruin the marks by touching them. He hears a huff of amusement from above him, feels a fond hand brush against his face again, and smiles a little before extending his hand fully.

The lipstick does smear, a little, when he traces a finger through saliva and onto the rings, but it’s pretty, like abstract art. Except on Jack’s dick. That thought should make it ridiculous, and it kind of does, but the whole thing still has a somewhat spectacular air to it.

Rhys moves his bionic hand up, too. He doesn’t use it to stroke Jack, knows from experience that the arm can be either a mood killer or enhancer, and doesn’t really want  to chance it. Instead, he trails fingers up Jack’s shirt, revealing his happy trail, before moving it back down so his thumb hooks under his dick, keeping it steady so his flesh hand can focus more on touching.

Jack lets him get away with it for a while. Longer than Rhys reasonably should have been able to, if he’s honest, because his touches are so light they’re probably more ticklish than a turn-on. Then, his hand trails up from Rhys’s cheek to his hair, running through it once before tightening, but not quite pulling against him.

“This whole thing where you’re looking at my dick like it’s your whole world is nice, princess, but the pace needs to pick up before I fall asleep,” he says, voice throaty and bordering on amusement.

“You’re the one who wanted me to look.”

Rhys’s grin is catty when Jack tugs on his hair enough to draw his head back.

“Mouthy,” he warns, eyes sparkling, “and not in the way that’s getting me off any faster.”

Rhys huffs a laugh as he nods once at Jack. The apology he offers is halfhearted at best, downright insubordinate at worst, and he gets fingernails dug into his scalp for it. He sighs a little, settling back into his familiar role.

His fingers wrap around Jack more firmly, still careful not to ruin the lipstick smudges too much and, just because he can, he leans forward to peck a kiss on Jack’s head, tongue fluttering out between his lips, one last little tease, before properly opening his mouth to suck again.

He can taste the lipstick against his tongue, bitter in a different way than Jack tastes. It’s not pleasant, but there’s something about the two conflicting flavors, about the fact that it’s _his_ lipstick on Jack that he’s sucking, that warms him to it. His bionic hand shifts, moving further down Jack’s thigh. He uses just enough pressure that Jack has to push against him, forcing himself deeper into Rhys’s mouth to combat his arm, and Rhys moans.

“Fuck, Rhys.” Jack’s hips jerk harder, a short enough stroke that Rhys isn’t worried about choking, but still rough enough that he has to concentrate on where his teeth are and the position of his tongue.

It’s nice. He’s zeroing in on what he’s doing, his flesh hand massaging circles into the hollow of Jack’s hip, tongue dragging heavy on the underside of Jack’s dick. The little moans he can’t suppress vibrate his lips just a little, and he has to concentrate so his mouth doesn’t end up dragging again. The thought of spreading more lipstick over Jack is appealing, but the rhythm is what he wants, the buildup of Jack’s voice, the hand tightening and releasing in his hair, each action a direct response to the way he works himself.

He feels, more than sees, Jack shifting in place. His other hand reaches down, both of them now cupping Rhys’s head as Jack forces him backwards. He shifts with the pressure obediently, until instead of kneeling, he’s on the tip of his toes, and then his heels, pushed backwards so all of his weight is against one of the posts of the bathroom stall.

“I’m close,” Jack grunts, voice strained.

It’s not really asking permission for what he wants to do, but it functions the same way. Rhys tilts his head up as much as he’s able, looking into Jack’s eyes while he feels hands stroking his face. He watches the way Jack alternates between closing his eyes and staring down at him, eyes flicking between holding his look and watching himself fuck into Rhys’s mouth, a long slide against him.

“Knew you’d look so pretty with your pink lips stretched around my cock,” Jack breathes out, eyelids fluttering. “The adoring look suits you, it shouldn’t—” he grunts, pushing in harder and Rhys puts his other hand against Jack’s hips, steadying. “I’m not gonna let it leave your face for a long time,” he draws out.

Rhys wants to say something—Jack’s name, probably—but with his head trapped between Jack’s hands and his pelvis, all that gets out is a muffled noise that makes Jack grunt harder.

He feels the moment Jack pulses at the back of his throat and swallows compulsively around him. He hears Jack swear from above him and does it again, and is rewarded with Jack’s hands digging hard into his hair. There isn’t much room for Jack to get any closer to him, he’s already practically encased in nothing _but_ him, but he still tries, leaning over further so Rhys can feel his shirt brush against the top of his head.

He stays like that, sucking lightly, but mostly just allowing Jack to rock against him, until Jack’s grip lightens, his hands brushing through his hair again instead of pulling on it. When Jack finally draws back, Rhys reluctantly doesn’t follow after him. He uses the new freedom to slide down the stall post, though, rubbing at his overly-strained legs a little, even though he knows he won’t be feeling the actual pain for a little while yet.

Jack lets out a considering sound, combing his fingers through Rhys’s hair again before trailing a hand down to tip Rhys’s chin upwards. Rhys follows along willingly, letting Jack move his head for him, lips drawn up in a tired smile while he gets his breath back.

“You should do photoshoots after giving a blowjob, you’ve got a glow around you,” Jack says, smirking. He’s got hair hanging in his face, his pants are still a little ways down his waist, and his softening dick still has lipstick on it. Rhys exhales slowly.

“Yeah, well, you look like a porn star post-orgasm,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s trying to compliment him or tease him back. He probably ends up doing both, which suits him just fine. He’s always been a sucker for a good two-for-one deal.

Jack pats him on the cheek, not hard, but the sound it makes is still loud in the tiled bathroom.

“You’re feeling rebellious today. Is someone a little frustrated?” Jack asks, staring pointedly at the tent in his pants.

Rhys reaches down to put a hand against himself, considering his own arousal for the first time in what feels like a while. He does feel frustrated, now that Jack’s pointed it out. He’s been feeling frustrated since he first came to this party, and now here he is. Sitting on the floor of a really fancy bathroom, owned by the man he just gave a blowjob to, and his problem is just as present as it had been earlier.

He can’t believe, after all this, after all the effort he’d put into notmaking a fool of himself, he’s _still_ going to end up coming in a public bathroom like a randy teenager.

It might be the light-headedness, or the way he can’t get his thoughts to come together properly, but this whole situation suddenly seems completely hilarious.

Rhys lays his head against the wall and laughs. He’s still breathless, so he hardly makes any noise at all, but Jack looks down at him questioningly anyway, obviously not expecting that as his response to what, really, was a question that could lead to a lot of good things for Rhys.

While still in this stupid bathroom.

He waves his bionic hand in reply to him, too lazy to put much thought into it, and ends up hitting himself in the stomach, which just makes him laugh harder. After a few seconds, he gathers himself up enough to actually answer.

“I came in here to stop from coming in my pants, and you come in and. You’re worse than I am, I can’t believe—” he breaks into little giggles, ducking his head as tears start forming at the corners of his eyes.

Jack seems to understand what he’s trying to say, though. He swats him on the shoulder, so lightly that Rhys probably wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t been looking at him through teary eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, kiddo, laugh it up while you can, this isn’t a longstanding offer. And I’m not going to stay in here with you while you have your weird, hysterical breakdown, or whatever this is. Just sayin’.”

Rhys nods, biting his bottom lip to keep the laughter from bubbling out again, and sits there for several more seconds. And then he catches Jack staring idly at where he’s biting his mouth, looking mildly interested, and he stops being able to control it.

They’re just so horrible around each other. Rhys is still hard, dick twitching in his pants. Hell, Jack literally just fucked his mouth, and he’s _already_ looking like he might try going for another round, and _it’s great_. It’s going to end up really terrible for his public image, probably, and Yvette’s going to hate him, but still great.

After several more seconds, Jack sighs and rolls his eyes, reaching down to grab Rhys’s flesh arm and pull him up. Rhys follows along amicably, and ends up following the momentum right into Jack’s chest. He’s wearing the same outfit he always does, which Rhys feels isn’t ideal for someone coming out with a new clothesline, but the fabric is surprisingly soft, and Rhys rubs his face against it a little.

“If you start drooling on my shirt, I’m going to bend you over my knee instead of jerking you off,” Jack warns, even though he’s got an arm wrapped around Rhys’s shoulder, keeping him from moving.

Rhys huffs a laugh again, rocking his hips against Jack’s invitingly before turning his head just enough to slur, “Promise?”

As if that was as good as a “Please,” Jack smacks him on the ass, making Rhys lurch forward to get away from the stinging pain, another laugh pealing out of him.

“Alright, alright, no sassing when you’re being nice to me, I get it,” he says, appeasing, and Jack lightly massages where he’d slapped in reward.

“Knew you’d get the lesson, cupcake. Bit of a slow learner, huh? That why you got a job based on looks instead of brains?”

Rhys pouts a little, but doesn’t stop rubbing himself against Jack, enjoying the littlest bit of relief he gets from it.

“I’m a year away from getting a business degree. I’d be on my way to replacing you if I didn’t happen to be so gorgeous, so. Count your blessings,” he says, unable to keep a straight face near the end, and giggling harder when Jack takes another swipe at him for his sass.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees dryly, reaching a hand down between them and unzipping Rhys’s pants to pull him out, dry hand working over his dick. Rhys makes a little noise, in both satisfaction and discomfort at the friction, “I can see you now. Really impressive image, kiddo, gotta say, what with you not even being able to stand up by yourself without my help.”

“I would be a business tycoon,” he argues, and then almost falls over when Jack takes a step away from him, proving Jack’s earlier point in an embarrassing kind of way. He scoops Rhys up before he even has a chance to reach the ground, but he hits his nose hard against his chest and grumbles in dissatisfaction.

“A business tycoon who sucks off his boss in a public bathroom.” Jack laughs, holding his hand up to Rhys’s mouth on automatic, a reflex from all the times they’ve done this. Rhys spits in it, and Jack moves his hand back to tug at him again.

“That’s better than what most of the half-wits I work with have to offer,” Jack admits, grinning down at him. His other hand squeezes tighter around Rhys’s waist, not pushing or pulling him, just keeping a hold on him.

“Now stop talking, you’re ruining your own handjob.”

Rhys mutters the words back at Jack sarcastically, but obediently quiets down after Jack lets go of him to slap his ass again, forcing Rhys to buck hard into his hand. Or, well, quiet isn’t the word for what he is, but he stops talking back, at least.

“You do make adorable sounds when you’re getting spanked. We’re revisiting this,” he says, or warns, really, and Rhys makes a little noise, neither in agreement or disagreement, just so it doesn’t seem like he’s ignoring Jack.

He is, kind of, because he’s _finally_ about to get off, and he doesn’t care what Jack does to get him there. All he cares about is the warm, wet hand around his dick, and the way he can feel Jack’s other hand digging into his side. He can feel Jack’s chest vibrating while he talks, but other than that he just focuses on moving his hips and on the building tightness in his stomach.

He’s been hard for a ridiculous amount of time, and the blowjob had somehow made _him_ the more sensitive one, which seems unfair. He feels a little bad for his reputation that it hardly takes Jack any time to get him writhing and moaning out against him.

“You getting close, sweetheart?”

Rhys whines, pushing against him harder. His hands tighten into Jack’s jacket, and Jack runs a hand down his back.

“Yeah you are, look at you,” Jack says, voice heavy with approval, “That blush isn’t going away for hours. Too bad that lipstick of yours is ruined, no one would be able to take their eyes off of you if they could see you the way you are right now.”

Rhys squirms against him, and Jack holds him still before continuing on.

“Not that I’d let anyone else see how you are right now. You looking like you do on camera is all anyone else deserves to see. It takes Handsome Jack to handle you wrecked and too overwhelmed to even hold still.”

In any other case, Rhys would pounce on the chance to make fun of Jack for referring to himself in the third person, because no one’s ego deserves to be that big. As it is, he lets out a little sob. Jack backs them both up until Rhys is back to leaning against the bathroom stall, and he rests against it gratefully.

“Come on, princess. Let me see that blush spread. You think we can get it all the way down your neck?”

“Jack,” Rhys whines, head stretching back. He’s too hot to figure out if the flush has fallen to his neck or not, but Jack makes a murmur of appreciation, one hand rubbing over the head of his dick while the other brushes against his throat.

“That’s it, so responsive to me. C’mon, Rhysie, cum for me, let me see you.”

Rhys cries out wordlessly, spine arching, his chest pressing against Jack’s while his hips stutter forward. Everything goes fuzzy for a second, his whole body hot and tingling. His muscles clench and unclench, and his eyes squeeze shut, too overtaken with just _feeling_ to look around, too. He can feel the material of Jack’s clothes rubbing against him, though, and the familiar rumble of Jack’s voice, now dropping low and soothing.

There’s a moment when he unbalances, and it takes him a second to realize Jack has turned them around so that he’s the one leaning against the stall, holding all of Rhys’s weight in his arms.

They stay like that until Rhys finally opens his eyes, grumbling words he’s too worn out to try to parse into something meaningful.

“Remember what I said about drooling,” Jack reminds idly, rubbing a hand over the nape of Rhys’s neck in a way that stops the grumbling almost completely.

Rhys grunts in answer, tries to raise his head up, and then gives it up for a lost cause.

“’M tired,” he mumbles against Jack’s shirt, looking up at Jack’s chin, since that’s as far as his eyes can reach without him moving his head, which is way too much work right now.

“If you fall asleep in this bathroom I’m leaving you here.”

Rhys giggles a little. All his talk about how "Big Bad Jack" was the only one who got to see him post-blowjob, and that's what he tries? Weak.

“Gave me a handjob in a bathroom,” he says, because it’s hilarious, and he's too lazy to explain how easily he can see through him.

Jack shifts against him, probably making some kind of judgemental face. Rhys doesn’t need to look up to see it, honestly, he’s already got a pretty clear picture in his head.

“You got on your knees in the bathroom because you couldn’t wait to suck my dick, princess. Which one of us is worse?”

“You,” Rhys says, voice petulant.

Jack chuckles, squeezing at his neck idly.

“You know it. Now come on, we have a bunch of people out there who want to schmooze us.”

Jack steps forward, forcing Rhys—while still leaning against him—totake steps backwards to match his, and Rhys sighs before lifting his head up. They _should_ go. Rhys has probably completely destroyed his makeup by now, so he’s going to have to wipe it all off, but he does want to get back to the party. Now that he’s not going to get a hard-on over the whole thing, he’s actually looking forward to it.

Jack’s one step ahead of him, reaching out an arm behind Rhys to grab some paper towels. He makes Rhys back up further so he can get them wet, and then brings his arm around to rest the paper towels against his face. Rhys thinks, for a second, that Jack’s going to wipe his makeup off for him.

Instead, Jack drops them, and they fall onto Rhys’s nose, hanging there, dripping water onto his designer jacket.

Jack takes one look at his—probably somewhat stupefied—face and throws his head back and laughs, walking towards the bathroom door with easy, confident steps.

“C’mon cupcake, we don’t have all night.”

Rhys grumbles and wipes at his face, turning to examine himself in the mirror. His eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara are passable. He has to rub a little at the edges, where his tears had only marginally messed it up. It’s mostly just his lipstick that’s smudged to hell, and he rubs it away with regret. If he’d been smart, he would have brought the tube with him.

Although, if this little encounter has taught him anything, it’s that foreplanning really isn’t his specialty.  Not that he’s complaining about how it all turned out.

“Tick tock,” Jack says, voice annoyingly loud, and Rhys sighs, staring at himself in the mirror for another second before moving to join him at the door.

He’s just about to step past him and open the door for them, when Jack grabs at his shoulder.

“One second,” Jack says, and Rhys stands next to him curiously. Jack twirls a finger, and, after Rhys looks at it with narrowed eyes, sighs and forcefully turns Rhys around.

“What are you—”

“Shh, I’m just returning something that belongs to you.”

Rhys yelps a little when he feels a hand on his ass, which still stings a little, because Jack’s an asshole. He turns his head to look back at what Jack’s doing, and is rewarded with a light cuff to his head. With a sigh, he hangs his head back down. He feels Jack’s hand enter into his back pocket, and when he feels the small bundle being left in there, he feels his head hang further, a blush rushing over his cheeks.

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your panties.” Jack pats him hard on the ass a couple times, laughing, and then he abruptly leaves the bathroom, holding the door open for Rhys expectantly.

Rhys stares hard at his shoes for a second, a grin fighting its way on his face before he turns to follow Jack out.

He thinks, just because Jack’s being an asshole, he’s going to send him those pictures he took, to show him what he missed by ruining his panties. He knows Jack’s schedule, he could probably pick a good time to do it. Like when he’s in one of his conferences, or something.

Maybe Jack will spank him for it.


End file.
